


A Study in Sherlock

by gone_to_fight_the_fairies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 18:18:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18452021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gone_to_fight_the_fairies/pseuds/gone_to_fight_the_fairies
Summary: Sherlock’s sourness leads the reader to make some deductions of their own.





	A Study in Sherlock

“Sherlock,” you call after the man, sprinting up the stairs. Your shorter legs ordinarily put you at a disadvantage, but Sherlock skipping steps made record time to the flat above. You reach the top step as Sherlock barges through the door, leaving it wide open for you to follow. “Sherlock!”  


“I have work to do!” His eyes were drawn to his experiments on the kitchen table, taking a seat. He slides a new glass slide under the microscope lens.  


You stood in the frame of the kitchen. “I don’t have to be you to see that you’re pissed!”  


“I am not pissed!”  


“What the hell happened back there? One moment we’re talking to Molly and the next you won’t look at me in the cab.” Sherlock tilts back, switching objective lenses and peers back down at the subject.  


You huff, leaning on the frame. While investigating a serial murder case, you both stopped by the morgue after a new victim was mutilated. However, something changed between the time you entered the morgue and when you left. “What did I do?”  


Sherlock tenses, eyes losing their focus. “You did nothing wrong.”  


Your instinct is to snap Sherlock out of whatever prickly-trance took him by the reigns; to push up this deflective shield he held between you and him. Knowing it’d drive him further away, you examined him like a case. Sherlock was a man to always to keep his tells at bay, but even he was blind to a rare few that crept upon the surface when his emotions were at their peak. His shoulders were still tight, scrunching up to his neck as he hunches over the microscope. His mouth twitches under your gaze; reserved for truly troubling emotions.  


Molly unzipped the body bag, stepping out of the way for you and Sherlock to examine the fresh corpse. Sherlock reached for the victim’s arm, finding a small tattoo in the pit of the elbow, similar in that of the previous bodies. He beamed up at you with that triumphant gleam in his eyes he reserved solely for you.  


The morgue doors opened. A man entered asking for Molly Hooper, handing her a bouquet of roses. You disregarded the body, traipsing over to your friend to gush over the colorful arrangement. A small creme envelope perched between the stems; Molly picked it, reading aloud an endearing message from her new boyfriend.  


Sherlock brushed past both of you, not stopping to speak before walking out the door, hailing a cab as you barely caught up to him on the street below.  


“I thought you never felt anything for Molly.”  


Sherlock’s gaze snaps up, narrowing his eyes at you. “I never have.”  


“Then why are you upset about the flowers? You had every opportunity to date her before…” You motion between him and you.  


“I don’t give a damn about Molly, or the flowers.”  


You study Sherlock’s face, observing the stillness in each feature. He told the truth, that much you knew. But the mystery of his grouchy exterior hung over the room. “Then for God’s sake what’s wrong?”  


Sherlock tightens his lips, a sure sign of debate, calculating his next move. Eventually, he admits, “It’s the way your eyes dilated at the flowers.” Something in your expression makes Sherlock’s face soften. He rises from the chair, taking a few steps in your direction as he explains, “It reminds me how I’m failing in the role of the… boyfriend.”  


You reach for Sherlock’s hand, warming his palm against the cold draft of the flat. “Flowers are tangible things. You show me you care every single day. Well, nearly all of them,” you chuckle. “You’ve saved my life-”  


“As many times as I’ve put you in jeopardy,” Sherlock adds solemnly, casting his gaze down. “You deserve sentiment. Sentiment that I, Sherlock Holmes, can’t care to provide.”  


Creasing your brows, your other hand to caresses his face. “You listen to me. Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day—if we’re very, very lucky—he might even be a good boyfriend.”  


Sherlock tilts his head. “Are you quoting Lestrade?”  


“Yeah, but I added the boyfriend thing.”  


“Plagiarism, but,” Sherlock pauses, an arm sneaks around your waist, pressing you against him. “I enjoy it better when you say it.”  


“There’s not another relationship I’d rather be in. Flowers and shit die. What you and I have is everything, okay? Don’t get insecure on me.”  


“I’m not insecure,” he pouts, tugging onto you tighter.  


You wrap your arms around his neck. “Sure you’re not.” Stepping onto your tippy toes, you meet his lips.


End file.
